


How About Now?

by Jyso



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aurors, Burn baby burn, Eventual Romance, Harry has a stammer, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, I mean like really slow, M/M, Multi, Pouty Draco, Romance, Sassy Harry, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Violence, comedyish, lovely Ron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2018-12-11 16:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jyso/pseuds/Jyso
Summary: Harry was never too good at dealing with his past, but hey, here it is again, ready to say Hello.He's happy now ; he has a steady job, fantastic friends and a perfectly snobby cat, what more could he want?A lot more, apparently, if his past has anything to do with it.When Draco Malfoy comes meandering back into his life, Harry has to face an entirely new set of problems involving dark Wizards, not-so-dead Potions Masters and a rather inappropriate crush on a long-time childhood enemy.A.K.A that fic where Harry's past just won't stop trying to ruin his life!(Or is it?)





	1. The Bookman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco gets a home visit.  
> 

Sunlight spills in through high, wide Parisian-style windows, casting this particular bedroom in a soft, golden-orange glow. The air is thick with the scent of sleep, warm skin and lavender with a dash of freshly picked honey-suckle.

Someone buried under a generously thick comforter groans in dismay, the sound of a man thought to be thwarted by the arrival of a new day.

"What on Earth?" They whisper hoarsely, peering with the reluctance of a child over the top of their sheets to glare drowsily out of the window closest to their bed.

How dare the sun be so unrighteously bright this morning? This someone internally questions with ill-placed irritation.

In an attempt to fight unbidden consciousness, the person rolls onto their side bringing the comforter all the way up and over their head, shielding the light from unwilling eyes.

Of course, this doesn't work because it's bloody _stifling_ under there and they break out from beneath their make shift tent flushed faced and scowling.

"Deli!" They call and not a second later, the smallest, prettiest house elf appears with a thunderous 'crack' standing bare foot against the cool wooden floor, her long ears pulled back with a piece of heavy navy ribbon.

"Master Draco, Sir," she greets softly, bowing low enough that her pointed nose skims her own toes. Draco Malfoy reaches out to brush her head with long, gentle fingers and she jumps, startled by the sudden contact as though she had been touched by lightening.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Bowing _really_ isn't necessary, Deli," he murmurs in a voice riddled with sleep before dragging a hand roughly down his face and shoving his feet into the rouge slippers beside his bed. The elf flinches, her wide blue eyes briefly meeting Draco's before skittering away.

She'd always been somewhat shier than most other house elves, keeping herself even more to herself than Dobby ever had, which is seemingly impossible. She's kind, though, and Draco tries his best to treat her well. Because in all honesty he still holds a residual fear of Granger and her S.P.E.W campaign, doesn't really  indulge in the idea of being targeted by her for supposed House Elf abuse.

"Sorry, Master."

She produces a newspaper from under a dainty arm, presenting it to Draco like a sword and he has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Good Grief - once a house elf always a house elf, he muses to himself questioning briefly when he'd grown so fond of this one.

"Would Master Draco like to read th' paper now or after his breakfast?" Draco considers it, wondering if he's awake enough to deal with any backhanded commentary aimed at his family and their  'honour', or rather, their proclaimed lack of it and witheringly decides that he really isn't, waving Deli with the explanation that 'after breakfast would be perfect'.

She nods then excuses herself, visibly straining against the need to bow as she makes her exit and Draco sighs loudly once she's gone, forcing a harsh breath through his nose before cracking the vertebrae in his back as he stretches with practised ease. A shiver races down his back at the odd sensation, leaving him limp boned and possibly even drowsier than before much to his annoyance because he really is trying to actually make it out of bed before two o'clock today.

A thought suddenly strikes him and he frowns.

He'd never asked for his cup of tea.

Grousing quietly, Draco pushes out from the folds of his bed and shuffles stiffly across his floor in search of a shirt. Pansy's supposed to be coming over to take him out for lunch, and by the looks of things, it seems to already be close to midday. Draco winces and hurries into his en suite bathroom meaning to shower quickly so he still has time to fire call Millie about that memory devouring pocket watch she'd accidentally discovered on her last work shift.

Sleeping in had never been a habit of Draco's but ever since he'd found a home for himself, it's something he's been indulging in more and more lately without actually intending to. The old Draco would have scorned at the idea of wasting away half of his day cooped up in his room but after finding work (not an easy task mind you), he wants nothing more than to laze about in bed 'til noon at any chance that he can snag. Besides, he's so far removed from who he used to be. He can't quite bring himself to care about that boy anymore and it feels remarkably good. Refreshing even. 

A shower, it turns out, is exactly what he needs to wake himself right up and Draco finds himself feeling ridiculously chipper once he's fresh-faced and fully dressed. If one thing is for certain, it is that Draco Malfoy likes to look good, a trate which certainly must run in the Malfoy lineage. Once dressed, he makes his way to the living room, glancing at the gilded clock on the far wall on the mantle above the fireplace , before deciding that he'd have to call Millie later. Pansy, although being a close friend of Millicent's, would not wait for them to finish a conversation about a watch, especially if it does not involve nor benefit her. Draco honestly doesn't know how he had acquired such selfish friends - but then again that surely must say more about him than anything.

It's a quarter to twelve now, so he decides to settle into a seat by an already open window, where Deli has laid out the Daily Prophet, and waits until Pansy arrives. Draco picks up the newspaper and flicks through it in a non-committal sort of way, barely spending more than ten seconds on each page. It's not as though there's much to look at, anyway - the main story seems to be about a woman with the largest collection of Dibaba Teapots in all of Europe and a picture of her surrounded by an abundance of said floating teapots takes up the entirety of the front page. One article, however, does catch Draco's interest. It's about his place of work, Harkinson Bailey's, and seems to be suggesting that 'it is a place of mystery and ambiguity, founded on lies spanning back for centuries'. Draco feels panicked for a moment, until he realises that the entire article is simply mocking the idea that Harkinson's could ever be taken seriously as a dealer of magical tomes. What absolute bollocks, Draco sniffs, though it is rather amused how shallow the Daily Prophet could really get. He would know, having had his fair share of time on the front page after the war a time he has suppressed deep in his subconscious. He'd rather people make a joke of his work than read too much into it.  Harkinson Bailey's handle delicate magic, mainly in the form of ancient text or script. If what they are doing is overly exposed by the media, it could attract all sorts of unwanted attention from Merlin knows who. So the best thing to do is let the Prophet spout shite out of their arse until they grow bored with Harkinson's and move onto their next victim-

The floo bursts to life in a bout of green flames as someone appears within the depths of it's burnt-out pit and Draco is startled right out of his train of thought.

He rises to his feet with the languidness of a house cat, wondering vaguely why Pansy is here so early - But it's not Pansy standing in his floo, it's-

it can't be -

"Mother?"

He stops moving, stops breathing even, just watches as Narcissa Malfoy, who he hasn't seen in over a year, exits the floo with a poise like no other, the layered skirts of her dress gathered up carefully in her gloved hands to avoid coating the hems in dust and floo powder.

It's almost like watching the ghost of a memory he thinks as he takes in the sight of her, and Draco has to fight the urge to slap himself for fear that he's dreaming.

She is donned in a dress the colour of midnight, sleek and flattering, over which she has tastefully draped a mauve cloak with shining onyx buttons lining the left side. Her hair is swept back from her face by an intricately decorated pin and flows flawlessly down her back in complete uniformity.

She looks beautiful.

She also looks deadly.

Beautiful, yet deadly. Like the nightshade which used to grow in some secret alcove of the Manor Gardens. 'A single touch of nightshade can leave a man delusional' his father had once told him as he had caressed the velvety head of one bud in the midst of blooming with the tip of his cane. Draco is sure his Mother is possible of much, much worse.

When she finally meets Draco's gaze her eyes, usually a relaxed, pale azure, are creased at the corners and sharp as daggers, as though she's spent many an hour in deep thought.

"Draco," She greets extending a slender hand and Draco hesitates before reaching out to take it, helping his Mother to a chair near the floo. She fits here entirely too well. Reclined delicately against a high-backed, ornately carved seat in Draco's clean, airy flat. With it's tall windows, lavish curtains and carefully polished wooden floor. He almost asks her to stay...but he knows she won't. Her home is in Paris now. And to be frank, he's not so sure if he'd forgive himself if he asked.

"How are you," Draco asks looking down quickly at himself to make sure his clothes are suitable, on par with his Mother's own exquisite fashion.

His Mother raises a singular dark brow which is enough to convey her slight amusement. "Darling, I adore you, but let's save the pleasantries for a later date, yes?"

Draco lets out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in, feeling his lungs aching vaguely as he draws in new air. His Mother extends her arm again and Draco doesn't miss the hesitation in her eyes though he still finds himself curling himself like a child against her, breathing in the scent of an unfamiliar sweet smelling perfume. He pulls back with a nostalgic wistfulness swirling through him as seats himself on the chair opposite from his Mother. he feels uncomfortably off-kilter, still numb from the sight of Narcissa Malfoy in his home.

He notices that the black in her hair is twisted back into the pin she wears, yet the pale blonde is left a little bit looser. The style suites her.

"I have something important to tell you Draco," she says, her voice an odd mixture of tranquil and sombre like the sea before a storm, and Draco nods, remaining silent as she speaks.

"There's been..." She pauses for the briefest of moments, weighing her words, "An occurrence. A person has gone missing. A very important person, mind you, and a group of Wizards suspected of dabbling in the Dark Arts has taken an interest in his work. They're looking for him - hunting him down." She stops here to produce her wand from within her robe sleeve: It's a finely crafted, eleven inch, albino birch wood wand with a Phoenix feather and Veela hair core. He'd always envied hers - prefers it over his own, especially now that his wand is heavy with the weight of a sorrow which somehow makes him ache from the inside out. 

"They left this in my care." Draco watches as his Mother summons something, the thing materialising in the space above their heads,appearing, sheerly, out of thin air with the sound of air shifting but no physical breeze. Draco can immediately feel the power radiating from the object before it has even had a chance to fully form itself.

Golden sparks fling themselves from the tip of his Mother's wand as she pulls the - book? - from its place suspended above, letting it fall gently into Draco's lap.

He waits for a single beat before ghosting his fingers along the leather bound book. It's a heavy thing and soft under his palm, Draco thinks smiling to himself, before carefully - oh so carefully - pulling back the cover.

Inside, the paper is worn and yellowing and he scours it for any sign of a name. He gives a victorious huff when he finds some initials just on the inside corner of the cover.

S.S.

Draco frowns, tracing over the two letters thoughtlessly his mind ceaseless in it's analysis.

"S.S?" He looks to his Mother for an explanation but her face has gone pale and distant, her hands twisting and fidgeting ceaselessly in her lap.

Draco feels his stomach writhe anxiously at the sight, remembering how his mother had looked the exact same way when Voldemort had commandeered their home. The exact same way as when she had first laid eyes on his Dark Mark, where it had writhed like the animal it conveyed, raw and aching, against his stark white flesh.

He pushes the sickening memory down, away and closes the cover again, really studying it this time. It looks like... Like a potions anthology of sorts, maybe two hundred years old if his estimation is correct.

Potions? The word resounds in his head like an echo growing quieter by the second. His Mother knows little about potions let alone enough to make use of the advanced practises contained within this book.

Draco struggles with the possibilities until realisation suddenly barrels into him and - it feels like a blow to the face - he almost drops the book as if it physically burns to the touch.

His Mother won't even look at him now and Draco feels a noise, brimming with panic, surge up the back of his throat but he swallows it down and holds his breath. It tastes like acid and terror. He almost wretches.

"This is Severus'." He whispers in confirmation and his Mother flinches at the name whilst her eyes restlessly scan the room as if some one might hear him, as if someone will appear through the walls any second now and Draco wonders who could make a woman who has shared the company of the Dark Lord himself, afraid. The air turns instantly cold.

"Look at me," He commands surprising himself with the authority that resonates in his voice like thunder frozen because, right about now, he's feeling anything _but_ authoritative. His Mother snaps her attention back to him looking vaguely shocked but also proud.

"Now tell me the truth, or is that too much to ask Mother?" Draco waits until his Mother is ready to speak.

She brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear and takes a moment to compose her thoughts. "Whilst in Paris I... I was gathering enough memories to allow me to create a portrait of Severus."

Draco stares at her.

No. No she...She can't possibly be serious - How could she think - how could she have kept that from him? He feels something bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin, threatening to burst forth and consume him whole. He trembles with it, so infuriated that all he can do is let out a bitter laugh. She had promised not to keep secrets when his Father had been locked up in Azkaban. What a fucking load of shite that had been. He laughs again.

"How long?" He asks in a tone devoid of the adoration which had been there only moments ago. "How long has he been..." Draco doesn't want to say 'alive' because that really isn't the right term. His Mother nods in understanding anyway.

"He's been with us for just under a year." Draco chokes on his own tongue and gapes at her. 

"You're fucking joking me! How dare -"

"Draco Malfoy, watch your mouth!"

They glare at each other until Draco caves and mumbles an empty apology.

His Mother sniffs haughtily but doesn't say anymore. Good, she must know that she's lost her right to correct him, lost her right to tell him what's right and what's not. But then again, Draco supposes that she lost that right a long time ago.

After a while Draco gazes back down at the book sitting in his lap, wondering again why Severus would entrust it to his Mother. It looks like an ordinary potions guide but Draco isn't so easily fooled ; he can feel the magic positively rolling from his fingers after merely just touching the book.

"He actually left that for you. Though I don't see how you could benefit from a Potions Anthology of such mastery." She's confused, Draco can tell, but she suppresses it because she hates not knowing. He'd never told her too much about Harkinson's, he supposed it would just be another thing for her to worry over. He's in half a mind to tell her now, just to see the shock on her face. 

"Why did you wait so long then? Why didn't you tell me as immediately as it was done?" He questions clasping the book tightly against his chest as if that will bring Severus back.

He'd never thought losing someone twice could sting so much. 

His mother grasps his hand over where he has a white-knuckle grip on the book's spine, stroking a thumb softly over the back of his fingers. Like she used to do so often when he was a child and it works. Draco begrudgingly feels his spine relax a little bit, but he's still angry - still hurt by what she's carried out behind his back as if he's a stranger. No wonder she stayed away for so long, no wonder Draco couldn't -

"I did this to ensure they wouldn't come after you Draco." She says softly with a crease in her brow, as if she can't quite grasp why he's not grateful for what she's done. Frowning doesn't suit his Mother ; it makes her look older, more fragile and if there was one thing that Draco's Mother wasn't, it's fragile.

"I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, Mother." He means to say it in a way that holds a bite beneath the words but it comes out sounding small and tired. His Mother's eyes soften noticeably. And Merlin he wishes she would just stop already, his head is spinning with the surplus of information pressing against his skull from the inside out -

"I don't doubt your abilities, Draco - I believe you - but you're still my son." She looks mildly troubled. "I still care."

Draco feels his eyebrows draw together and though he loves his Mother, the declaration does nothing to help the nausea spiralling through him.

He gives a tight-lipped nod. "I know."

Silence closes over the both of them as they both lose themselves to their own thoughts.

How exactly does someone go missing in a portrait?

Draco sighs, closes his eyes and imagines the face of his Godfather. It's becoming increasingly difficult for Draco to wrap his head around the idea that Snape is somehow alive, and even more difficult to confirm in his mind that he is missing,

"Who - Do you know who exactly is trying to find him?" Draco asks and his Mother gazes at him for a long time, her face gradually becoming neutral. She only does that when she has something she doesn't want to say and Draco is determined not to let that happen. He leans closer to her, voice straining around the words. 

"Mother, please. If we are going to have any chance at finding him you need -"

Someone appears in the floo with a soft 'thud' and Draco snaps his mouth shut, twisting round to find Pansy half - frozen in the act of stepping from the floo pit.

She swallows, looking rapidly between the two Malfoys. Onyx eyes fall to the book in Draco's hands before flitting to his and Draco can see that Pansy knows this book is brimming with old magic. The air is heavy with it, like the sky before a downpour.

"Mrs. Malfoy, Draco didn't tell me you'd be coming over today," Pansy conceals her concern with a radiant display of a smile as she smoothes down her robes and glances subtlety at Draco once more.

He almost groans back at her in response.

She moves swiftly over to Draco's Mother, bending slightly at the waist to press a soft kiss to her cheek. His Mother, ever the weak one for good manners, smiles at Pansy before setting her eyes sharply on Draco as if silently willing him to keep what he's been told to himself. This, however, will be extremely difficult, what with Pansy having an intellect to rival Hermione Granger's own and also because it seems like she's already trying to piece things together. It's as though Draco can actually see the cogs in her brain spinning.

"Oh no, I was just leaving, dear," Mrs. Malfoy rises easily from her seat touching Pansy's arm as she slides passed her on the way to Draco's floo. Draco's seen her pull that move on guests at various Malfoy Ball's before, to try to sweeten them up. Malfoy, through and through, Draco thinks.

"He's all yours, now." At that, Pansy scrunches up her already squished nose in feigned disdain and Draco has to smother a loud snort, thankful that his mother has her back to them. Having to explain why they were laughing would imminently lead to an awkward conversation about Pansy's rather fantastic discovery of her attraction to the fairer sex, and Draco honestly does not have the willpower to get through that, least of all with his own Mother.

Pansy moves to stand next to him with a small smile of her own and together, they watch his Mother climb effortlessly into the floo scooping up a handful of floo powder on her way, from a bowl on the wooden shelf above the fire place. She hesitates before muttering something in French under her breath, a prayer most likely, before smiling wanly at Draco. But it's paper thin and he can see right through it, can see this unmistakable anguish that lies behind the smile.

Her eyes meet his.

"Stay safe."

Then she's gone.

X

Pansy drags Draco to a pretty little patisserie in the middle of Muggle London which, it turns out, is run by a Wizard named Franklyn who Pansy briefly attempted to set him up with. Turns out Franklyn is happily married to the kind Witch behind the counter who is currently swollen with their third and fourth child.

They settle at a table by the window on the second floor where the sun shines through and warms Draco's milky skin.

He ends up trying to explain to her why Fortune Teller's haven't already gone extinct, even though it's been proven that their work is a whole load of Hippogriff shite.

"Vicarious reinforcement," Draco shrugs leaning back in his seat and Pansy crooks a brow at him in a way that says he sounds like a, quote, 'pretentious bastard'.

"You know," he pushes, smirking slightly as he tries to validate his point to no avail. "Seeing someone else do something successfully and feeling the urge to try it for yourself in the hopes that the result will be the same. Plus, Muggles eat that stuff up - they love it."

Pansy snorts as she takes a bite of her pastry.

"Right," She says sarcastically around a mouthful of Danish but not within giving a small hiccup of a laugh.

For a moment they both sit in amicable silence drinking tea and picking at the platter of sweet treats between them.

When he feels eyes on him, he looks up and, surely enough, Pansy's watching him from behind a chocolate truffle, quietly curious.

"What?" He asks and she shakes her head, unsettling some of her hair from it's bun, and puts the truffle down, pressing her slender fingers into the edge of her plate.

"Why was your mum here, Draco?"

Draco's mouth goes from perfectly functional, to drier than the Sahara desert in the space of a heart beat.

Bollocks.

He knew she was bound to ask about it eventually and was surprised when she had watched him stash the book away without uttering a single thing which is very unlike Pansy, who has an opinion on anything and everything and isn't afraid to voice it. Blaise often refers to her as their 'Little force of Nature'. Draco has a few other choice words he'd like to use instead.

But, anyway, here it is. The big Question.

Draco could see his Mother's face swim before his eyes, reminding him that he is to keep his mouth shut. But Pansy's looking at him with an unwavering determination, the sort that Draco had seen on her during their O.W.L.S and N.E.W.T.S and he so badly wants to tell her about Severus and the portrait and-

He finds himself fiddling with his napkin just for a reason not to look at Pansy.

"Come on Dray, I'm not an idiot, I can tell this is serious and that whatever's happening you can't handle on your own," She states tilting her head to try and catch his gaze from under the hair that's fallen into his face. Of course, she's right but Draco won't allow himself to admit it.

"Besides, that book you've got positively wreaks of ancient magic and something tells me it's not all the 'good' sort, either."

Draco sighs.

"Pansy -" he begins and then his mouth utterly betrays him " - Snape's alive."

He claps a hand over his mouth just as Pansy chokes on her tea, spewing it back out like a mini geyser. It would have been funny if she hadn't looked so livid.

"Draco, what the fuck!" She fumes, dabbing aggressively at her mouth and then at the table. "Draco,  _what_  the actual, bloody fuck?"

Pansy has started to shake her head out of complete exasperation.

People are shooting them scoldingly dirty looks so Draco leans forward and drops his voice into a serious whisper. "Well not 'alive' alive. He's a portrait. Mother's been gathering memories whilst she's been in Paris, he's been around for about a year-"

"A year?" Pansy looks almost ready to burst with rage . "And she's only just told you any of this?"

He hesitates then nods and she hisses sharply between her evenly spaced teeth.

"But... He's recently disappeared - nobody knows where he is - and Mother thinks it's because there are some notably notorious Dark Wizards who want in on something he knows," Draco continues.

Pansy frowns. "How exactly does someone in a portrait go missing?"

"That's what I thought!" He agrees feeling his eyebrows draw together.

She nods."And the book?"

Draco shrugs and begins picking idly at his napkin again. "Mother says he left it for me - so I'm sure he knows how important Harkinson's truly is. There must be something he wants me to do with it, something possibly hidden inside? I mean that's usually the case with these sort of books."

Pansy purses her lips and picks up her truffle again, nibbling at it half-heartedly as she thinks.

"Have you considered contacting anyone who might be able to help you with all of this?" She asks, her tone careful and Draco smoothes out his napkin against his thighs. folds one corner, then the next.

Truth be told, he hadn't, he'd barely just gotten his head around the fact that his Mother has been keeping this from him for so long. Pansy was, again, correct though, he'd need to get a team together, and fast.

"I've heard that....Potter and his lot are quite good when it comes to missing persons," She says somewhat off-handedly.

Hold on-

What?

What did she just say?

Draco's head snaps up and he scowls at the mention of his childhood enemy. It all seems quite idiotic now that he thinks about it, but he's stubborn so there's no way he's backing down from his adamency to not go to Potter of all people for help.

"Potter?"

Pansy takes a moment to sip at her tea before she leans forward across the table, pushing a cake out of her way with a pointed elbow. She stares at him with a serious set to her mouth - an expression that Draco's all too familiar with.

"Look, as much as you hate the idea of having to ask Potter for any kind of help, you have to acknowledge that he's good at this sort of thing - you can't ignore that. It's his job to locate and track down missing people," Pansy says quietly her eyes flitting between both of Draco's and, this close up, Draco can make out each of the tiny moles and freckles scattered across her heart-shaped face.

Draco looks away stubbornly and he hears her sigh.

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be, alright?" She says reaching out to pat his hand.

"Pans-"

"Draco, please, if asking Potter to help lessens the risk of you getting yourself hurt in the long run, then do it. Do it for me, at least, if you can't even do it for yourself."

Draco glances back to her, finding a rather vulnerable looking Pansy peering back at him expectantly, from under her fringe. It's rare for her to let this side of herself show and his resolve cracks almost immediately at the sight. He covers her tiny olive-tone hand with his, a small smile forcing itself onto his lips.

"Fine, you selfish Slytherin prick. Happy?" he mutters and she grins, barely masking her relief.

He's secretly glad that he has someone like Pansy on his side, worrying and watching out for him. It makes him feel safe and he loves her for it.

"You bet I am, You poncy little bastard," She mutters back and Draco snorts. "Besides, he's not an ugly looking boy, if you're into that sort of thing."

Draco feels a flush crawl up the back of his neck as he attempts to stutter out a reply and Pansy smirks knowingly, withdrawing her hand from Draco's to take another measured sip of her tea.

"Sod off, Pansy," he finally manages, once he's got his tongue back under control and she smiles but says nothing more on the subject.

X

It's almost seven when Draco reaches back home after separating ways with Pansy for the day. She'd made him promise to write to Potter as soon as he was able and he'd foolishly agreed.

Right now, though, he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep until next week.

Draco smiles at the idea.

Bloody Merlin, wouldn't it be brilliant if that were a possibility? He shrugs his robes off, leaving them in a pile on the living room floor, followed by his shoes, which he unceremoniously kicks under the coffee table.

Next, he hobbles into the kitchen, deciding that he'd need a glass of Firewhiskey before he could even remotely consider writing to Potter. The notion itself is enough to give Draco a pulsing headache. He pours one glass, downs it almost immediately, then pours himself another and carries that and the bottle of Firewhiskey to his study toeing the door open softly.

Marlow hoots at him as soon as he's into the room and he grins, puts his things down and hurries over to the ow, unlatching his cage and sticking his hand inside. The tiny owl hops happily onto his wrist and spreads her wings as if stretching, whilst she lets out another hoot of greeting.

"Hello to you too, Mars," he mutters fondly and carries the owl to his desk on which he keeps a jar of dried Wallow Worms. The owl eyes the jar and pointedly cranes her head round to stare Draco down. Draco raises an eyebrow at Marlow's impatience, yet he still uncaps the jar, fishing out two particularly fat worms.

Handing them to Marlow is a bit of a production because she keeps trying to pluck them from between Draco's fingers before he even has a chance to fully get them to her. Eventually he does, gawking as the owl simply swallows them whole.

"Sweet Salazar, chew your food, why don't you, Mars?" The owl simply turns her beak up at Draco in response and he rolls his eyes, setting the owl down on her perch at the edge of the desk. For some reason, Marlow finds it fascinating to watch Draco write which is ridiculously endearing. "

Alright, suit yourself, you just might like to taste what you eat once in a while, is all," Draco tells the owl. He then settles himself down in his desk chair and rifles through his draw for a small, yet durable piece of parchment. Luckily, he finds one right at the back, and lays it across the top of his desk.

The problem is, once Draco is sat there with everything ready, he realises that he has no bloody idea what he's going to say.

'Oh hi, Potter. My Mother has just told me that the man who tormented you for the best part of seven years has been made into a portrait, but, alas, he has disappeared because there may or may not be a group of insane Wizards chasing him and I need your help to hunt him down, lol! TTYL XXX Draco Malfoy, your childhood enemy.'

Although he's tempted, that type of letter really won't suffice and he doubts Potter will find it nearly as funny as he does, oblivious git that he is. Draco massages his brow and sighs.

Letters were never his forte, really ; he preferred to talk to people in person. But it's not as though Potter and him are exactly on speaking terms so he doesn't have much of a choice on the matter.

Marlow hoots softly in his direction and he startles, then reaches out to pet at the owl's head with a gentle finger. Calm down, Malfoy, he tells himself, before picking up his quill from its holder.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, summons a pot of ink and begins to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, that wore me out!  
> I love this boy so much and I promise that you guys are gonna get a very dramatic very EXTRA Draco.  
> You know the drill ; caress that Kudos button and show ya author some sugar! ~


	2. Alcohol makes for weird thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Choices, choices, choices -  
> Our boy Harry has some to make.

"Yesterday?" Hermione peers over her shoulder as she jostles some vegetables about in a pan and there's something in the subtle downturn of her lips that tells Harry just how irritated she truly is.

He'd told her about the letter. About Malfoy's proposition, about the overwhelming yet underlying, almost desperate tone that had tucked itself away beneath each word.

Harry had read it, rendering himself speechless for the rest of the evening because if Malfoy is anything, it’s not desperate. He has too much pride for that, enough to flood entire oceans.

Ginny's leaning into his left shoulder as she flicks through one of her many Quidditch magazines, her head lolling slightly as she tries to read the bottom of one particular page. She smells like Dragon hide and broom oil. Harry somewhat likes the scent - it's comforting, homely. He blinks and the sky flashes behind his eyelids, can almost feel the wind on his scalp, the cold against his cheeks-

"Yeah, at around half past seven." Harry replies becoming increasingly distracted by the sound of something scratching at wood, only to look down and realise exactly what it is.

The little white owl that had delivered Malfoy's letter had never made the return flight, and is currently hopping around on Hermione's dining room table hooting and flapping her wings as if she's in the middle of a heated debate with no-one but herself.

Harry really can't lie, he's absolutely  _smitten_ with her, from the very bottom of his heart and can't help but wonder how a twat like Malfoy could own an animal like this. No wonder she didn't go home.

She's impossibly tiny but so very intelligent, so full of gusto. He grins and reaches out, happy when she climbs onto his wrist and scales up his arm until she can settle contentedly into the crook of his neck. He has to fight down the overwhelming urge to swoon and fuss over her.

Hermione turns, then, one hand pressed to her hip, as the other avidly wields a spatula - and for a moment Harry is sure she's about to launch it at his head out of sheer annoyance. She doesn't, but his suspicions stay peaked when she starts waving it violently at him as she speaks.

He knows that girl has a mean throwing arm on her, when it comes down to it.

"And he was contacting you, his self-proclaimed sworn enemy, for help?"

Harry hesitates, then nods.

"And may I ask _what_ it is that he needs your help with, exactly?" Hermione demands, sounding rather a lot like a huffy mother, and Ginny barely stops a snort, pushing her face further into her magazine to try to conceal it. Harry smiles, yet still elbows her softly in the arm ; she quietens but he can just make out her smirk from over the top of The Quidditch Weekly. Trust Ginny to laugh at a situation like this. Give her the chance and she’d probably go back in time just to make fun of the Dark Lord to his face.

"He said that he couldn't discuss it in writing and that he would much rather prefer to hold a personal meeting," Harry tells Hermione and she purses her lips seeming thrice as unhappy as she was at the beginning of this conversation.

Sure, he'd made plans to floo to her flat the previous day, feeling too worn down to take any action on Malfoy's letter by himself. Now, though, Harry's not entirely convinced this was his best idea. Hermione, to put it lightly, is bloody pissed about the fact that Draco Malfoy would have the audacity to ask Harry for help with anything, whatsoever. Especially after having avoided the lot of them like the plague as soon as the war was done and finished.

On top of that, she had personally tried to reach out to him on numerous occasions only to have her every attempt either rebuffed or ignored completely. And, of course, Harry had felt bad for her but had expected nothing less from a selfish, cowardly prick like Malfoy. He feels his skin crawling with pent up anger, smoothes it down internally, because it's not...professional. Rational, yes, but definitely not professional.

"'Mione, it really isn't that big of a deal. I mean yeah, he's a complete and utter, uh..."

"Wanker?" Ginny supplies without even lifting her eyes from her magazine. That makes Hermione smile, if only a little bit and Harry's chest floods with relief.

"Perfect. He is a complete and _utter_ wanker, but if Malfoy's reaching out for help from me, doesn't that mean that whatever it is must be serious?" Harry plucks the little owl from his shoulder when she starts to fidget and holds her in his hands. She nuzzles his palm once, then flutters over to Hermione, landing on the arm that's still wielding the spatula. She's fantastic at interpreting emotions and can obviously read Hermione's discomfort from a mile away.

Hermione melts almost _immediately_ and gently grazes a finger over and down the owls tiny head and back, cooing sweet nothings to her. She glances to Harry with gooey brown eyes before sighing under her breath in defeat at the hopeful look on his face.

"I suppose we could... see what he has to say. But I'm coming with you." Harry holds up his hands in a gesture of truce and Hermione rolls her eyes good-naturedly before turning back to tend to her vegetables.

He feels his shoulders sag, secretly grateful for the fact that Hermione insists on going with him to meet Malfoy. She'd be far better than him at any sort of discussion and there was no way Harry could talk to Malfoy without it ending in an argument or aggressive Hexing.

Ginny finally puts down her magazine and lazily rolls her neck and shoulders, pushing her long auburn hair back from her eyes whilst turning to face Harry in the process.

There's something under her gaze, something that tells Harry she knows about the trouble he's having coming to terms with Malfoy and his letter. Then her hazel eyes flicker away and Harry is left lost once again. Swimming through his own confusion.

"What do you think of the Harpies, this season - reckon they've got a chance at winning the cup?" She asks, abruptly changing the subject, and Harry is too glad for it. He'd really rather not ruin the evening by talking about prickly Bastards like Malfoy, as childish as it may sound.

Ginny decides to then prod him heartily in the forehead, digging a finger right into his scar to encourage a response out of him because Ginny has never, in all her adult life, had the mental capacity for patience.

Harry bats her away with a small yelp, feeling a shudder roll right through the entirety of his body at the uncomfortable feel of someone practically assaulting his forehead.

"Firstly : never do that again - like, ever." He begins and Ginny cackles loudly. "And secondly, I'm afraid the Maltese Mayflies are on form, I say their in with a good chance at winning. Did you see what they did to those 'Dragons?"

Ginny groans dramatically. "Fucking _destroyed_ in the first forty five minutes."

Harry's not too sure, but he thinks he might have heard Hermione's light laughter over the sizzling of the pan. He reclines in his chair with a small sigh and a smile.

"But you never know, the Harpies could pull it back, especially with a Chaser like Eliza Eldridge."

Ginny hums in agreement, looking decidedly sceptical. "That's only if that Hamstring injury of hers has fully recovered by the start of the season."

Harry winces in response, only just remembering that Eldridge had taken a particularly nasty tumble from her broom during a match earlier this year. Everyone had assumed she'd be out for a while, but were surprised when she'd been seen back in training not even a month and a half later. Harry opens his mouth to reply, meaning to tell Ginny that Eldridge was a dependable player, when Ron appears with a low 'clap' in the middle of the living room.

He looks windswept and a little bit confused, but he seems cheery enough and they all twist round to watch as he kicks off his shoes and plops them down by the side of one sofa. Hermione tusks unhappily at the sight as she sweeps her huge curly hair back from where it's splayed itself across her forehead, the steam from cooking making it stick to her coppery skin.

"Ronald, how many times do I have to tell you : shoes go in the hallway. You'll dirty the carpet."

He grins, absolutely radiating nonchalance, as he makes his way into the kitchen area with long unhurried strides. He stops to ruffle Ginny's hair, much to her distaste and she snarls at him jokingly earning herself a gleeful smile in return. Harry stares for a beat too long before taring his eyes away.

"Hi to you to, 'Mione," Ron greets mock-sarcastically, dropping into the seat to Harry's right and trying with no success to fold his legs into the space between the chair itself and the island.

Harry attempts not to laugh.

It's like watching a giraffe try to get into a muggle car and bloody Merlin, if that's not funny then Harry doesn't know what is.

"Harry," Ron says after promptly giving up, and throws a gangly arm around Harry's shoulders, pulling him into his side."How are you, mate?"

He's ridiculously warm, even with his hefty, black Auror robes on and Harry struggles with not fulfilling the urge to curl up into Ron and stay there all evening. He smells like tea and sleep. Harry almost leans in to outright sniff him. Pull yourself together, Potter!

When he finally manages to pry himself away, it's to find Hermione side-eyeing him with something akin to pity because she knows- She knows how much Harry likes Ron - has for years - and she also knows what a complete bone-head Ron could be at times. How teeth-grindingly oblivious he is. But, as much as he appreciates it, Harry doesn't want her pity - when he's ready he'll tell Ron, because he's a grown man who knows how to handle his feelings -Well... At least he likes to think that he knows how to handle his feelings but really-

"Hello? Harry? I asked you how you're doing, mate?" Ron playfully bumps Harry's shoulder with his own as he shrugs his robes off and hangs them on the back of his chair before his cobalt eyes flit back to Harry's. Harry’s stomach curls into itself, knot after knot.

There are scorch marks littered haphazardly across both sleeves of Ron’s tattered shirt, through which Harry can just make out unnaturally reddened skin and he frowns at the sight.

"I'm great - are those hex burns?"

Ron blinks slowly, then glances down as if only just noticing the damage to his clothes. He grins sheepishly.

"Oh, work was quite... Exciting today..."

Everyone squints at him and Ron's ears turn a delightfully bright hue of pink. Well, it would have been delightful, had the mood in the room not shifted so dramatically, leaving the place feeling cold. Cold an tense.

Harry frowns even harder. "Really? I never heard about anything from me and Nev's office."

Hermione locks her arms across her chest and leans forward with the same taughtness to her body as a coiled snake, but it doesn't look quite so menacing with a tiny, fluffy owl clinging tightly to her shoulder.

"Getting a new _broom_ is exciting, Ronald, Going to Egypt to study ancient magics is _exciting,_ Ronald - however I don't think, somehow, that flesh-devouring, nerve-damaging spells fit into the above category, do you?"

Ron rakes a hand through his hair looking as though he wants to argue his point - and then his posture goes slack. He suddenly looks older, more worn through but he's smiling, still, even though it looks like he would really benefit from a two day power-nap.

Harry knows that feeling.

He knew it way back when he'd first began training as an Auror and he sure as Hell knows it now.

Being an Auror is a taxing job, physically and mentally. The onslaught of paper work, Spell competency training and bodily labour takes its toll eventually. He knows how some days it seems impossible to drag your body out of bed because everywhere aches, every muscle, every bone, every _fibre_ of your being burning in protest-

But you have to get up because knowing there are people who need saving overwhelms the pain.

Ron's eyes go soft on Hermione because he knows she's only worried about them.

All of them.

Not because she doesn't believe in their years of training or their defensive abilities, but because -

she's seen what Wizards can do. She's seen the darkness that resides within others. Has suffered the consequences of that darkness firsthand.

"I suppose not. Sorry for making you worry 'Mione."

Hermione goes very still for a moment and then nods once, stiffly, before returning to her cooking. Her shoulders stay tight.

Harry draws in a deep breath, touching his hand lightly to Ron's arm. It’s so warm under his fingertips. "Do you need something for the burns?"

Ron gives him a grateful look and Harry resists the temptation to reach out and tuck his hair -which has dipped from amber into Auburn over the last few years - behind his ear.

Instead, he pushes out of his seat and sets off to find the first aid kit Hermione keeps around here somewhere.

X

Once the food has finished, the four of them settle down to a cozy dinner, complete with Warbler Wine and Firewhiskey.

They absolutely _demolish_ Hermione's stir fry because it tastes incredible.

They also find out that Ron's burnt clothing is actually as a result of an elderly Wizard's reluctance to give up his three dwarf Dragon's.

Apparently something had been destroying properties in a local Wizarding community via fire and everyone assumed that it had to be the Dragons.

Ron's team had been sent to investigate the complaints of the overseeing council.

Turns out, the Dragon's were harmless and that the old Wizard was actually the one carrying out acts of arson on Magical strip clubs and other such establishments in the area, because he'd been refused access to all but one which 'wasn't even that good!' according to the Wizard himself.

"Who knew the bloke would have such good aim - Merlin - especially since he'd only had the one bloody eye!"

Hermione chokes on her wine and reels backward, laughing so hard that her eyes begin to rapidly fill with tears.

Of course, this sends the rest of them into fits of very unadult giggles and Ginny is positively howling, now, having been holding it back thus far. Ron loops an arm around Hermione to keep her from falling because they're all rather tipsy, accept for Ginny who unfortunately has to work on a Sunday and cannot afford to show up the next day with a hangover.

"So this pervert of a geezer, puts up quite a fight - I was impressed - sending out binding spell after binding spell for an hour, taking down two of our team and he's only 5"3'- no really Harry, I kid you not !" Ron has to stop to pull himself to together but completely loses it when Hermione starts hyperventilating because she's laughing so hard.

"Lord, 'Mione, I know I'm funny but don't choke yourself to death!"

Ginny holds up a hand as if to say 'no more' because she's gone completely red in the face from her excessive cackling. Harry grins - it's actually quite brilliant to see.

"As much-" she hiccups on the remnants of a rogue laugh " - as much as I'd love to stay, I have work in the morning and I need my rest."

"Don't we know it." Harry mumbles around a smirk as he sips at his wine and Ginny thwacks him on the head even though she's still smiling.

Hermione looks remorseful and tries immediately to tempt Ginny into staying with promises of more stir fry but Ginny politely refuses though it looks as though she barely manages to turn down the offer. That was some really good stir fry, Harry thinks around the buzz of alcohol in his brain.

"Hermione, I love you, but no." Ginny sighs, petting Hermione's absolutely wild hair before gathering her things up and Hermione pouts and sways slightly into Ron.

She then leans down and kisses Harry on the cheek as she shrugs her jacket on, an emotion briefly flashing across her features that Harry, for the life of him, cannot decipher.

"And good luck with the Malfoy thing."

Harry groans at the reminder, and rubs furiously at his eyes with the heel of his palms, happy to have briefly forgotten what he'd came here to talk about in the first place.

Harry doesn't miss the way Ron's smile drops almost comedically fast and his eyes swivel from Harry to Ginny in shocked confusion. Harry blinks sluggishly. Ron really is too cute for his own good, the alcohol makes him think.

"What Malfoy thing?" He asks and Ginny raises a brow, slinging her bag onto her shoulder before winding her bedraggled looking Gryffindor scarf around her neck. There is nowhere Ginny goes that her scarf doesn't - it's become a strange sort of second skin to her.

"Ask Harry," she says simply before drawing her wand, waving at them all and promptly disapparating.

Before Ron even has a chance to get the question out into the open Harry stops him.

"We should really put her to bed first," he suggests in a soft voice. Hermione is snoozing heavily against Ron, dribbling against his already ruined shirt and when Ron grimaces Harry can't help but to grin.

God, he loves his friends.

On moving Hermione, Harry rediscovers his little friend, the owl, getting cozy in her hair and Ron laughs softly. The sound travels right down Harry's spine to pool warmly in the depths of his stomach. Merlin help him not to do something he will regret because Harry really does not want to fuck up a brilliant friendship like this. Ron is undoubtedly one of the most important people in his life- losing him would be soul destroying and Harry can barely bring himself to think about anything like that happening. Ever.

Harry removes his small friend from Hermione's hair and stashes her in the hooded part of his jacket which he carries out and leaves on the kitchen table once they've finished tucking Hermione into bed.

He and Ron settle down to talk, taking chairs on opposite sides of the table ; Harry pulls his feet onto his self-appointed seat, then brings his knees up to his chest and heaves out a weighty sigh. Sitting face to face, he can't help but notice the way Ron's jaw has squared up nicely with age and how he's stopped wearing his hair in that ridiculous bowl cut-esque style, instead, opting for something more modern and Merlin does he look good, so, so good.

They've all grown a lot since, since.... Everything.

War and anguish could do that to a person, he supposed.

After spending a good deal of time  explaining to Ron what he had already explained to Hermione, Ron simply stares at him, having gone entirely silent at around halfway through the conversation.

"And you're actually going to go?"

Harry shrugs lamely wishing he could think of something better to respond with. He doesn't know why, but the low light in Hermione's well-composed living room is making him twice as drowsy, his body hums pleasantly with the gentle thrum of alcohol through his veins.

After some deep thought, Harry comes up with a reply that far exceeds his current mental state.

"It'd be rude to just ignore him. Besides, the letter... It seemed important. I spelled it to see if there were any hidden messages and I found traces of extremely powerful magic. It wasn't all his either."

Ron nods his head slowly, his eyes gone calculating and sharp. Auror mode, Harry recalls vaguely with an internal smile.

"Well I suppose ... If he contacted you, he must be desperate," Ron grins softly and Harry can't help but to follow the motion with his eyes, his fingers, his mou- Harry shakes his head to clear the thought right out of his mind.

What is wrong with him? They're discussing something serious and here he is, fantasising about snogging his best mate?

"Hermione said she's coming with me on Monday - she doesn't trust him either."

"Do you blame her? He's a two-faced slimy little git." Ron's lip unconsciously curls in disgust.

"I get it, but that's not the point - the point is that we as Aurors, have a role to fulfil no matter who or what it's for. Malfoy or not, he's still someone who needs my help and respect to him for swallowing his pride to reach out and ask for it. That's a big deal, coming from someone like Malfoy."

Ron takes a moment to mull over Harry's words before his shoulders sag heavily in defeat. Thank Merlin for that, because Harry is far too tired and tipsy to debate with anyone tonight even, frankly, himself. Which is probably why he's defending Malfoy rather than mocking him.

"Right, I see there's no point in arguing with you, mate." Ron says and then laughs softly. "You and that bloody Hero complex.... But if he so much as looks at either of you wrong-"

Harry gives a blasé wave of his hand, hears Ron snort in disbelief and tosses a grin back at him.

"Yeah, yeah. I know, hex his bollocks off. You don't have to tell me twice."

Ron's eyes light up like stars in place of the laughter he doesn't let loose.

His face takes on a look of pure fondness which he then unleashes on Harry without so much as a warning.

It's so gentle, so _soft,_ yet it manages to feel like a direct punch to the stomach, leaves Harry breathless, raw, almost gasping for air -

\- and Harry reckons he could get drunk on that look alone, he's _sure_ of it.

And in that moment he knows one thing and one thing only:

That he is totally, completely and utterly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, look, I promised you action and I swear that it's coming.  
> I'm just a sucker for a long build up guys.  
> Sorry not sorry !  
> If u think the stories been alright thus far, let cha author know it kinda helps -  
> So gently caress that Kudos button.  
> Gently, guys, she's shy ~


	3. To Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has a meeting that he really isn't looking forward to - and why does Potter look like that?

Draco spends the _entirety_ of his Sunday afternoon psyching himself up for the meeting with Potter because the urge to not show up is even stronger, now, than Draco's unrequited love of sarcasm. Which is to say, quite strong, if you didn't know.

He'd almost toppled over with sheer, unadulterated relief when it had seemed like Potter wasn't going to grace him with even the semblance of a reply... Until, that is, a letter had come early that very same morning stating that he would, in fact, meet with Draco on the strict terms that Granger would be accompanying him.

Draco had almost snarled a loud at that but had remembered that he was a Malfoy and Malfoy's don't bloody well snarl like wild animals.

Oh, but he really was feeling wild.

Typical Potter, can't do anything without one of his cronies tagging along, even after all these years. But he had also been surprised, half expecting Potter to outright turn him down, possibly through the use of a Howler.

Sweet Salazar Slytherin, Draco could only imagine what that bespectacled moron would have to say to him.

The following Monday morning had found him staring into the mirror for a good half an hour, straightening and restraightening his waist coat. Pressing at his trousers, flattening his already pristine robes. Tugging at his hair until it fell as he liked, curling soft and loose against his pale forehead.

Merlin, look at him - dolling himself up for the likes of Potter and Granger. Draco glanced at his bronze-plated pocket watch before deciding it was time to make his leave. He throws on one of his _less...flamboyant_ robes followed by a pair of plain black patented shoes, which he had shined himself, for good measure. The last thing he wanted was either of the two making jibes at his wealth or favour for extravagant clothing.

He paces to his door yet pauses in the act of grabbing his bag solely for the fact that, in there, he'd hidden Snape's.... Gift. Draco didn't know how else to name it, even though 'gift', in itself, was rather ridiculous and not even remotely suitable.

He slugs the book over his shoulder, feels it weighing heavily at his side, more like a shackle than an archaic piece of literature, before prying his front door open and leaving.

X

The Grand Library is, well... A lot grander than he recalls even though he'd only been here just last week for work.

The building looms far, far above him - a monster composed entirely from white stone and masterfully-forged black metal. Each of it's four heaving pillars is thicker than two widths of Draco's body and he must admit it is both a terrifying and incredible piece of architecture.

Almost as much as Harkinson's is. Almost.

He sweeps through the high oak doors with his chin jutting proudly and his shoulders back, acting as though he's meant to be here in an attempt to get people to stop looking at him so strangely. It works to a certain extent. Most of them go back to doing whatever they were doing prior to Draco's entry. Yet some hold his gaze, stare him down with curious, vaguely disgusted eyes and Draco struggles not to sneer or swear in retaliation. Struggles not to shrink back from their prying gazes. There’s atremble starting in his hands that hasn’t been around in a long, long time.

The Librarian distributes a dark frown to those who continue to mutter until they fall silent and she goes back to enchanting a feather duster into cleaning the highest shelves that stand behind her. Draco feels his chest swell with relief as he passes by her desk, making for the depths of the Library in search of two Aurors.

He doesn't know what he'll discover but can only pray that he finds enough restraint within himself to keep from decking Harry bloody Potter square in the nose on sight.

Deep down he expects to meet a boy who's clothes are far too big for his scrawny frame, who's owlishly large eyes glare back at him with determined hatred from behind crooked wire-rimmed glasses. Or a girl, awkward and slim, with too much hair for the designated space on her head and overtly large teeth. Maybe a thick roll of parchment in her hand.

But he certainly doesn't expect to see this.

Not the _man_ who waits in Potter's place, with a sure stance and an unreadable, emerald gaze. Still with that God-awful hair but it... It somehow suites him which just serves to make Draco despise him all the more. And a squared jaw, broad shoulders and - Is that his owl?

Or a woman with bronze skin, almond shaped eyes and full lips. Softly curling hair that is still ample but tame now, pulled back carefully into a high pony tail which only serves to further exaggerate the graceful curve of her face and neck. Draco's stride almost falters because facing them suddenly doesn't seem as impossibly easy as it did before. He finds himself straightening his clothing again, easing out his posture in an attempt to look unfazed. But he is. He's incredibly fazed. Because these are clearly not the same woe begotten child heroes he'd attended school with - these people are authoritative, influential and dare he say - powerful. He clutches his bag tighter to him when Potter's sudden laughter rings out across the open space between them and a smile morphs his face into something Draco refuses to acknowledge as disasterously handsome. He finally looks like the Golden Boy the world has been desperately trying to salvage from the wreck that was the war, someone ready to save lives and bring justice - or whatever other Hippogryff shit it is that Chosen One's do. Granger chooses that moment to fleetingly glance his way only to have the smile that had been on her face slip from it with the fluidity of water. Potter frowns at the sight and then proceeds to follow her agitated gaze and - It's like the world tilts slightly ; everything goes skewed, taking Draco with it.

Potter's brow dips ever so slightly and his mouth firms up until it's nothing but a fine, bloodless line.

He looks more...confused than peevish but Draco immediately brushes the thought aside, putting It down to the fact that Potter's most likely shocked by him actually having the nerve to show his face in public. He stops about a metre in front of the two, raising a single brow at them both before clearing his throat.

Granger's face, on the other hand, has taken on a strange look, almost neutral but definitely, definitely calculating, ten times more focused than she had ever been during their school years.

She's analysing you, Draco acknowledges with a bitter sort of amusement and has to save himself from snorting out loud.

Whatever she thinks he's up to, Draco really isn't interested in hearing right now and this little staring contest that's happening between the three of them is beginning to turn awkward in that uncomfortable sort of way. Well, more awkward than it already appears to be.

"Is this how you greet all of your clients?" Draco drawls, in a desperate attempt to break this stifling silence, as he glances boredly between the two Aurors ; Granger gives a short humourless laugh as she swivels her narrowed eyes to Potter. They seem to have a silent debate in that short moment before Potter gives in and focuses his attention back on Draco.

His eyes are greener than Draco remembers them being. Like Absinthe.

"You're right, sorry. Mr. Malfoy, if you'd kindly like to follow us into a more private area so we can discuss -"

Marlow decides to assert herself, then, hooting loudly and swooping down from Potter's shoulder and up onto Draco's. Once satisfied with her placement, she begins to hoot and coo softly against his neck fluffing out her feathers distractingly. Damned owl, trying to get sweet with him after cozying up to Potter like that. But Draco can't stay angry with Marlow for long because she's helped him through more than Draco can currently account for.

Potter has the curtesy to look at least a little bit embarrassed and he basks in it for a moment. Good, he should be.

"Do you make a habit of stealing everyone's owls Potter, or am I an exception?" He queries just to get a rise out of him and Potter rises to the bait, flushing furiously, his hand going tight on his wand.

"I di-"

"Lead the way, Potter." Draco sighs cutting him off abruptly because he can't stand the idea of watching Potter blather about like an imbecile all day. He's gone through over seven years of baring witness to it already.

Granger rolls her eyes at Draco as though she's irritated by his mere existence, like he's a fly in need of swatting, before pivoting round and making off at an inconsiderate speed in the opposite direction. Maybe he shouldn't have ignored over twenty of her letters - that would have increased his chances of receiving any help with Snape, ten-fold.

Potter trails after her at a more leisurely pace not even bothering to wait and see if Draco is following and Draco is in half a mind to just turn around and leave but knows he can't afford to. Do it for Severus, for Pansy, for his Mother, himself -

Granger draws her wand when they reach a door on the far wall, tapping it five times against the wood and once against the handle. A burst of Magenta sparks erupt from her wand and bounce off of the brass like miniature fire works before the door gently sweeps open to reveal a smaller library inside.

The floors in here are deep mauve and gold gradually leading up to a multitude of towering book shelves which are absolutely bursting with literature of every size, shape and hue. Draco has to physically stop himself from racing over to begin racking the shelves for books - He's fallen in love with the sight, made morose by the fact that he's here with the likes of Potter instead of having free reign to do as he likes with this abundance of literature.

Draco tares himself from his reverie to find Granger already seated on a richly stuffed sofa, beginning to scrawl on a summoned piece of parchment. She looks to Draco pointedly and gestures at the seat opposite with a face full of impatience. This new Granger is possibly even more terrifying than the old one.

Potter sits next to her and summons his own parchment and quill, plucking them out of the air and positioning them on his knees. Draco peers at him as he inscribes something across the top of his parchment, noting that Potter's handwriting is still, for lack of a better word, fucking awful.

"Right, Mr. Malfoy," he begins gaining a tone of business and Draco finds himself inexplicably drawn to it as he makes himself comfortable on the chair assigned to him. Not as comfortable as it looks apparently seeing as Draco has to discretely shift about to find a spot that isn't plagued by lumps under the fabric.

"You contacted me in relation to the disappearance of...?" Potter glances to him with raised brows and Draco idly reaches up to pet softly at Marlow's head. He considers how he's going to tell Potter that it's Severus who has apparently gone missing before deciding it would be best to be straightforward. Dancing around admission would only prove to make this situation all the more troublesome and Draco has had his fair share of trouble already. Still, he finds himself verbally tripping over the name in an attempt to get it out into the open.

"Severus. Severus Snape."

The room instantaneously delves into silence when Granger's ceaseless scribbling stops. Potter accidentally snaps his quill in surprise, spraying ink across his parchment and hand. His head droops a little bit like a flower in need of some sunlight, like he's trying to distract himself from saying something he'll later come to regret. Draco's surprised by Potters civility and well-kept demeanour.

"E-excuse me, Sir?" Granger questions in a voice that is dangerously even as if the thin veil that is social etiquette is the only thing preventing her from hexing Draco into the next life. Draco puts a pale hand on the arm of his chair and grips hard, tries his best not to let his own instability show. When he's finally sure that he is able to speak without his voice quivering, he forces himself to meet Granger's eye poring all of his determination into the stare.

"Did I stutter, Granger?"

She purses her lips, puts a hand over Potter's where he's still clenching his broken quill and gives a tight jerk of her head that Draco thinks is supposed to be a nod.

"No, my apologies."

When Potter raises his head again, his face is neutral, placid even and Draco is more unnerved by it than if Potter had openly attempted to throttle him. He'd expected fire and fury but instead he'd received calmness and collection and it fills him with a cold, paralysing dread. He dares to meet Potter's gaze and there's something behind those toxic green eyes, something livid and outraged and -

Draco looks away, he has to because Potter is being ridiculously intense and he can't handle that right now. Not after everything that's already happened. Not when he's this close to absolutely losing it-

"He's been missing from his portrait for five working days and it has... Been said that there are a group of Dark Wizards seeking him out due to his ownership of something they desire." Draco folds his legs and leans back in his chair as though saying it a loud has stolen every ounce of his energy from his body.

Potter leans his elbow against the arm of the sofa and straightens his back out, inclining his head toward Draco in reluctant interest. There's a strange set to his mouth that makes him look as though he's trying not to say something cruel.

"May I ask where the portrait has been kept up until this point, Mr. Malfoy?" Draco tries not to outright shudder at the way the two of them keep referring to him as 'Sir' and 'Mr.Malfoy'. It revives memories of his father that he would much rather purge himself of, but he won't say so. That, to Draco, would be to admit weakness, to admit that after all these years apart his father still manages to make Draco's stomach coil up into a nausea inducing knot.

"I believe that would be with my Mother," Draco replies slowly. "In Paris."

Granger taps rapidly at her parchment with a single nail, tilting her head as she studies Draco with something tight and irritable in her face, something that looks as though it's about to snap. And believe you me, Draco does not want to be around when that happens. "Then shouldn't you be taking this up with the Parisian Wizarding Authorities, first?"

Draco blanches ; he'd never thought to ask his Mother about that little detail before she'd left. But he knows his Mother and he knows she's not an idiot and can't help but to become irritated by Granger's somewhat condescending inquiry.

"Granger, I know, being the proclaimed Intellect that you are, how hard it is to believe that the rest of us mere mortals contain any functional, cognitive brain whatsoever." He begins in a sickly sweet tone, ignoring the small smirk that works it's way onto Potters face - because, really? "But, alas, there are few others, aside from you, who are in ownership of such brilliant minds as yours. - Of course she contacted the Parisian authorities, don't be insulting!"

Draco had desperately wanted to let out a few chose expletives during the entirety of that little tirade but had held his tongue. Merlin, help him get through the rest of this meeting without either of these idiots uttering anything else so entirely stupid.

Granger raises a single brow and glances to Potter who's still wearing that infuriating smirk. She too then, begins to smile, rolling her eyes at Potter who gives her a small nudge.

Draco doesn't think he's ever despised any two people more.

"Mr. Malfoy, we are by no means, trying to cause offence through our questioning, but it is basic Auror protocol and therefore cannot be avoided," Potter explains pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose thoughtlessly. "If there is anything you would voluntarily like to tell us than you are more than welcome."

Draco fingers the edge of his bag.

Should he say anything about the book? About how wrong the magic it contains feels when Draco handles it with his bare hands? Potter sighs almost in audibly and Draco finds himself watching him again, the way his eyes dip down as they skims over the parchment pinched between his fingers. The warm sunlight pouring in through the window makes his black hair look almost brunette, almost tameable -

Draco scolds himself internally. You are not here to study Potter! he seethes before pulling his bag from his side, sliding his hand into its depths and gripping hesitantly at the thick spine of the book. He pulls it out carefully and glances between Potter and Granger.

"Snape had left this to me. I'm not entirely sure as to whether this will help in terms of finding him but...." Draco places it on the low glass-topped table that separates them and somehow feels thrice as vulnerable by doing so. He hates that more than he hates Potter. Vulnerability was never quite his forte.

Granger immediately draws her wand again from one robe sleeve and presses closer with eager, attentive eyes. She glances to Draco for permission to touch the book and he, for less than a tenth of a second, has the temptation to snatch it out from under her hands before she has the chance to get to it. Potter has his wand drawn too and is muttering things under his breath as his traces it over the books cover.

Silence ensues before Granger suddenly purses her lips together when the book glows a faint green and then returns to normal and decides to join Potter in his spell work. Draco recognises it as a revealing charm.

"Aparecium," Potter mutters but again, and rather unsurprisingly, nothing happens.

Draco tuts impatiently under his breath only to have Potter throw him a mildly irritated glance. He scowls determinedly back. Now that's more like it. He was growing rather bored if this new, tiredly polite Potter.

"Don't you think I've already tried that?" Potter rolls his eyes with much gusto a gesture that comes across as rather Slytherin. "Then how about telling us that you have, instead of acting like a complete prat?"

Granger frowns between the two of them in obvious distaste before stashing her wand artfully up her sleeve.

"Lets not argue like children, shall we?" She mutters. They settle for glaring at each other instead which just serves to irritate Granger even further.

"Would you two-" Something lets out a terrible, high-pitched squealing and Draco wonders who's just upset a potted Mandrake only to find that the noise is coming from... The book? Well that's new. The squealing stops almost as immediately as it had started and they all stare at it in wonderment.

"How odd," Granger begins to draw her wand again just as the book promptly flings itself open and it's pages go fanning apart as if unseen fingers flip wildly through them.

That's definitely new.

"Malfoy," Granger says slowly her eyes going quizzical at the sight. Words begin to peel themselves from the fidgeting paper, swirling skyward and gluing themselves to any available surface in sight. 'Catnip' attaches itself to her left cheek.

"Malfoy what on Earth-" After the words, comes space itself. Draco's never seen anything like it. It steals the breath right out of his lungs. Whole universes tare themselves from within the book, encasing the room in an ethereal purplish glow that somehow makes it difficult to formulate coherent sentences within his mind.

Potter's wide emerald eyes find Draco's just as gravity makes itself scarce and they're sent wheeling aimlessly into a galaxy of endless suns. And the look they share makes him feel as though he's going to burst out of his own skin, as though he's on fire, as though he's drowning, all in one. The universe itself seems to be intertwining with his very being, forcing out his soul bit by tedious bit. He can't quite tell where he ends and the immortality of the cosmos begins.

"Close it," He hears Granger whisper but the sound seems to gain momentum, reverberating around empty space until it holds the same volume as a shout. Draco staggers under the sheer weight of her voice, feels his head reel with the immensity of it.

Except, her mouth doesn't move.

Does it?

Draco can't quite remember because the memory has already deserted him.

He's never felt more insignificant in his life. Well, actually- now is not the time for self-deprecation, he tells himself.

Potter then wades into view again, physically struggling to reach for Granger with a hand composed entirely from crystals and colours and -

He tries to speak a loud but his voice is swept away on an invisible breeze and that scares him more than anything -

Why would Severus leave him something so imperceptibly dangerous without so much as a heads up, or a simple warning or, or something -

Even a piss-takingly cryptic message would have seen a much gladder reception than whatever chaos they had just been launched head first into. Lord, Draco doesn't even know what had triggered such a dramatic reaction from the book - He doesn't have time to finish his thoughts as the room begins to twirl sickeningly on its axis, sending books and paper and stars cascading into the abyss of a black hole which has appeared above their heads. Granger slams into Draco's side as they're unceremoniously tossed about inside the maelstrom.

What's worse is that he's been made to look like an absolute moron in front of the likes of Potter because he had no idea how to stop this madness. Not that he should care.

But, Merlin, he does.

Some small, sour part of him, is determined to prove himself entirely removed from that of his pitiful younger self.

Draco pushes forward at Granger's beckoning hand on his shoulder and each of them encircle the book as best they can whilst fighting against its unseen power. Together they physically attempt to force the book shut, after three of Granger's spell are flung back at them, which turns out to be a horrific mixture of full bodily shoving and talking at one another until their voices can no longer be heard over the screaming of the invisible storm.

Potter, obviously having had enough of being tossed about like herbs in a cauldron, hurls one powerful binding spell at the book, flinging out his wrist in a strong figure-eight motion. Blue light bursts from the tip of his wand and curls itself tightly against the leather bound Anthology effectively ceasing the flow of magic pouring from its pages.

Draco briefly lets himself be impressed by Potter's magical prowess.

The room, at that, is dropped gracelessly into complete stillness and the book seals itself shut, dropping down onto the table with a muted 'thump'.

The newly found silence is overbearing.

Draco's ears ring with the sudden loss of sound and wind buffeting his body, and it vaguely reminds him of the time they'd once discovered a hurricane inside of a magical Survival Guide back at Harkinson's.

Granger blows a stray lock of frizzy hair from her face and frowns in puzzlement. "Bloody Hell."

Draco raises a brow at her language whilst Potter only snorts from his spot on the floor where he's dropped down to search for his lost glasses. "Couldn't have put it better myself."

They each heave themselves back to their feet. And it's strange because for the briefest of moments there is a distinct lack of hatred in the room. There's a distinct lack of anything, really. Like the air has been sucked right through the floorboards.

Draco might as well have been keeping company with a couple of absolute strangers.

But then. Then it all comes rushing back with the unforgiving, tyrannous force of a tsunami. It almost hurts. The hate, the distrust, the envy, the pain. It pummels Draco right in the chest and he wheezes on a breath filled with sorrowful frustration. Granger has to prop herself up on a shelf because the same nauseating wave seems to have struck her too and Potter stops searching for those ridiculous glasses, just sits there staring into space with a look of utter loss on his face.

Not to mention, the place is a complete disaster and Draco truly doesn't know how they're going to explain it until Granger weakly begins casting cleaning spells all over the room. Books are strewn across the floor in varying states of destruction and paper is still gently raining down from the ceiling above, some of it even smouldering a little bit. Draco reaches out and catches a page, examining it carefully. The script is written in Arabic and from what he can tell, is based on the history of Middle-Eastern Magics. It's sad. Such a beautiful piece of literature destroyed because of his own stupidity. If Crawford had seen this, he'd have been subjected to a year underground with the Gremlin's doing monotonous piles of paperwork.

He draws his own wand and gets approximately half way through a binding charm before he feels eyes crawling over his skin. Surely enough, when Draco lifts his head to see who exactly said eyes belong to, Potter is staring intently over at him, his eyes gleaming dangerously behind rediscovered spectacles and there is such a potent loathing there - such undiluted hatred that it is almost tangible. Draco sneers in response though for some reason his heart rate has tripled in speed and his fingers tingle with excitement. He's missed this, being able to get under Potter's skin so easily without really having to try. It makes him giddy and Draco wonders if he'd always been this sick in the head.

"If you think this is some big joke, Malfoy-"

"Save it Potter," He snaps, holding up his hand with an acute abruptness that he wants to come across as rude. "Do you honestly believe I would waste the entirety of my Monday morning trying to thwart the likes of you? How self-absorbed."

A particularly hefty scroll chooses that moment to whip passed Draco's face - almost smacking him in the jaw - and inserts itself tidily back onto a shelf. He wheels round to seek out the perpetrator but finds only Granger, who innocently quirks a brow at him when he spits an incoherent threat her way.

"If you're lying about Snape..." Potter trails off, his shoulders hunched up somewhere near his ears and Draco could taunt him right now, could mock him for lacking the finesse to be a truly great Auror- But he doesn't. He sighs and marches over to the low table in the centre of the room to seek out the remnants of Severus' potions anthology. The book, however and to Draco's unhidden dismay, is completely unharmed, if anything it seems to look better than it did before which pisses him off far more than it should.

"I'm not lying." Draco says as he stoops down to pick the book up and stores it carefully back into his satchel. "Severus is missing and..." He looks quickly to Granger then at his hands again. "I need your help, so if we put our differences aside for one moment to find him, that would be marvellous, Potter."

Granger surprises him almost immediately by gently extending her hand for him to shake. There's a serious understanding dashed across her face And Draco almost caves under the relief of it.

"We'll help you, we are Aurors after all, Malfoy," She concedes with a hint of a joke beneath her voice and Draco, against his own will, offers the smallest of smiles in return. "Thank you, Granger."

She nods swiftly and Potter, somewhat begrudgingly, comes to stand next to her, muttering some sort of agreement. It could have been Draco's imagination but he swears he sees a flush creeping onto Potter's cheeks. How sweet.

Granger nods again, her stance straightening out, her head tilted just so and for some reason, Draco wants to trust her. She meets his gaze and raises her brows slowly.

"Let's get down to business then, shall we boys?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys I've been holidaying for a really long time, but here's the big meet and greet between the best boys and My star girl ~
> 
> Show ya author some love my sweets and stay tuned!


	4. The Artisan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is trying, he really is, but things may just start to spiral out of control for our poor Wizard.

He's known since first year that Hermione Granger has absolutely no mental capacity for the idea of 'rest or relaxation' so Harry's not entirely too sure why it surprises him when she, yet again, proves this. By the time he hustles into his office at around eight ‘o’ clock that morning, there's already a weighty wad of parchment paper sat comfortably at the centre of his desk.

Harry’s body sags at the mere sight because, most unfortunately, for the last two days he has been doing absolutely nothing but research and, by Merlin, he swears if he sees another bloody report again he's going to scream, or cry, or both. He also briefly allows himself to wonder how exactly Hermione had gotten into their office without the password, but this is Hermione he's talking about - the woman has tricks hidden inside of her tricks and there’s something humorous in the mystery of that.

Harry shakes his head as he shucks his outer most robes off, taking note of the fact that Neville has been kind enough to clear a space on the pin board hung up on the opposite side of his desk so Harry wastes no time in sticking odd bits of parchment paper up onto it in a particularly vain attempt to bring some semblance of order into his life.

And it's hard.... since Malfoy has come wading back into orbit, inevitably, so have the nightmares - though they're nowhere near as dread-inducing as what they used to be. What they could be - and the idea of that makes him tremble. And he doesn’t even want mention the stammer.

Ron would’ve been able to stop the nerves with one of his bloody terrible joke. But Ron isn’t here, he left on a mission that very morning to trek down to Loughborough on call about a supposed ring of Wizards attempting to smuggle small Jet worms across the Scottish boarder. And by Merlin does Harry want to see him. To just be near him - Good Lord, why won’t he stop _shaking?_

He clenches his fingers shut and swivels round to look at Neville - anything to stop the thoughts from overtaking him, from drowning him- "Morgan Morley-J-Jones, Nev, where did she end up working?" He asks, recalling rather belatedly what he had ordered himself to do the night before, which had been to enquire after a Wizard by the name of Henri Dubois - an artist in the business of magical portraiture. A suspect, as far as Harry is concerned.

Neville blinks owlishly at him from over the top of the document he's glued himself to, his eyes encircled with dark bruises from what is most probably lack of rest. Harry is in half a mind to use his authority to send Neville home with orders to do nothing but sleep. Hell if he had any say, half of his bloody _department_ would still be tucked up in bed right about now. The year had been so tough and they weren’t even a quarter of the way through it yet. If Harry didn’t know any better, he’d assume some greater force was out to get him.

"Department of International Magical relations I think."

"She took that extra curricular on M-M-Magical Artisans, right?"

"I-" Neville rubs furiously at his face as if trying to physically ward off the fatigue creeping into his skin like a Wiggler. "I think so."

Harry nods, pushes away slowly from his desk because taking a trip down to the Department of International magical cooperation sounds perfectly grand right about now. Just the right thing to clear his mind.

“You alright Harry?” Neville questions suddenly and Harry whirls round, caught completely off-guard by the inquiry only to see the genuine concern sitting deep in Neville’s eyes and it makes him glad to have friends like this. Friends that know when he’s actually not ‘alright’. Plus, the stutter usually gives him away.

“Just bloody p- per-perfect,” he says and somehow manages to crack a grin out of Neville’s work-hardened face because it’s a joke they’ve made since the third year Yule Ball when Neville had dreamily swept into their room after a night of dancing responding to Harry’s own ‘you alright’ with that exact remark. With a small smile and a wave, he dips out of the office, feeling marginally better than he had this morning.

X

The Department of International Magical Cooperation reminds Harry exactly of Gryffindor Common Room. It’s loud and vibrant and positively _bursting_ with people all in the midst of carrying out some important task or the other. He manages to swerve past five Wizards babbling to each other in French before having to sidestep a wispy Witch deep in deliberation with a statue of a golden Buddha who seems to be having none of it.

“Morley-Jones’s office?” he asks, stopping an older Wizard with skin the colour of mahogany, to which the man nods slowly, gesturing at a door painted bright purple just a long the way with a gnarled finger.

“That one right there, young man,” He elaborates with a slow smile that somehow manages to calm the nerves squirming in the pit of Harry’s stomach. “Take a traditional Nigerian pepper-up potion. You look like you need it, Sir,” The Wizard utters good-naturedly and before Harry can object he’s holding a small, glowing vial in his hands, watching the back of the man’s head retreat down the hall.

“What on Earth...” He grins to himself, earning more than enough odd stares on his way to Morley’s office. For some reason far beyond Harry’s knowledge, the door knocker is unabashedly rude. It glares at him with silver-gilded eyes upon arrival before promptly critiquing his appearance for the whole corridor to hear and Harry lets out a shocked laugh.

“Are those glasses supposed to be fashionable?” It begins in a slow unimpressed drawl that catches Harry by surprise. Oh lord, if he’d wanted to be belittled in front of a crowd he’d have called Rita Skeeter, or better yet, Draco fucking Malfoy. _“Excuse_ me?” The door knocker roles it’s eyes with vigour.

“Heavens. Deaf _and_ blind - would you like me to call someone to assist you, Sir?” It gushes in a sarcastically loud tone that just about makes Harry’s skin crawl. “You must be in the wrong department.”

Before Harry has a chance to retort the door swings violently open and he’s met with a cacophony of sounds. A young man pours out on awkwardly long limbs, paper mounting high in his gangly arms.

“Oh sorry,” he begins before his eyes fly open fully behind thick glasses. “Auror Potter! P-please excuse me I didn’t mean to - damn this blimmin’ paper - Sir my utmost apologies -“

Harry rights the quickly falling stacks smiling kindly from behind his own glasses because fuck if this young wizard doesn’t remind Harry of himself when he’d first joined the Ministry. Awkward, star-struck - unsure as Hell.

“S’alright,” He replies casting a quick stasis charm on the paper before it has a chance to fling itself from the Wizards grasp once again.

“Thank you, Sir,” He huffs with surprise and weighty relief.

“Anytime,” Harry nods and the young man scuttled quickly past with a flush and wide eyes. When Harry peers into the office, Morley-Jones is practically screaming at the floo in what he can only assume is German whilst the massive green visage suspended in the pit solemnly bobs up and down in agreement with whatever she’s saying. Her hair is a wild, dark cloud about her head and her eyes, as vividly emerald as Harry’s, are hooded with frustration. If it weren’t for her much fairer skin and a million freckles, you would almost believe the two of them to be related.

“Anyway,” she surmises in a heavy Scottish brogue, a sigh leaving her in one big gust. “I’ll get your dog back to you Mr.Schäfer as soon as possible, for that matter. Have a nice day!”

The head disappears with a rush of pleasantly warm air and Morley-Jones takes a few steps back from the floo, composing herself with a hand to her brow before straightening up to finally notice Harry. A brief something flickers across her face before it breaks into an honest, bright expression - a grin full of relief, displaying the wonderful and rather wide gap in her front teeth. Before he can make any query on Mr.Schäfer’s missing dog, she holds up a hand to silence him as if she knows and Harry smothers a smile.

“All you need to know is that people these days are still in the business of animal kidnapping,” She sighs and Harry is yet again bombarded by thoughts of Malfoy -and why can’t the bastard just leave him _alone?_

“Tell me about it,” he mutters before straightening his glasses more out of habit than necessity. “I don’t mean to impose Jones but I need to ask you something.”

She raises a brow before spelling her door shut with a flick of her wrist which only serves to remind him of how powerful Morgan Morley-Jones truly is. Harry would never in his right mind try to cross a witch like her.

“Fire away Mr.Potter.” She says perching herself lightly against her desk with the same rakish poise Harry wished he himself had mastered sooner. His eyes move from her to the single window behind the desk in the office which has been spelled to look like the Scottish highlands - it’s beautiful, yet so lonely. He snaps himself from his reverie. “What do you know about Henri Dubois?”

There’s a heart beat of silence. It feels like a hiccup in time. Morley-Jones pauses on her way to pick up her wand, which lays motionless against the worn wood of her desk. Her eyes snag on Harry’s, dark and filled with wonder, but she doesn’t question him. She pointedly avoids asking at all. Harry doesn’t know why he hasn’t made a closer friend of Morley-Jones sooner.

"He was something of a prodigy once upon a time," Morgan huffs pushing out her bottom lip in thought. "That is until he got himself involved with the wrong crowd- you know -" Her eyes flit to Harry's with heavy perturbation and he knows immediately what she's implying. Merlin, he wishes he didn't, but he does.

"Dark Wizards demanding portraiture?" She gives a sad little smirk and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, tonguing furiously at the gap between her two front teeth as if trying to further widen it.

"Unfortunately, Potter. He went into hiding almost a decade ago to escape both the media and other...unwanted attention. Poor sod did an awful good job with it too, took himself all the way to Jamaica at one point but he was only safe for so long."

Of course they'd go after Henri Dubois, even if it is the most obvious move to make, it is a necessary one. But then again, that would make tracking them a walk in the park, just a matter of retracing steps, making a few fire calls. Maybe he could do this after all. Maybe... Maybe Snape wasn’t as far out of their reach as he’d thought. Harry nods, feeling strangely empowered and Morgan throws him a sly grin her freckled cheeks bunching up with inconspicuous amusement. Her magic thrums through the air, so thick that it seems to crackle.

"Oh Potter, I know that look and whatever it means, do try to keep yourself out of trouble." Her accent has thickened considerably with glee and Harry, try as he might, cannot resist the urge to grin back.

He feigns innocence as he cocks his head to the side, “Whatever could you mean, Miss Morley?"

They share a look of pure mischief and Harry feels strangely at home. Oddly in his element.

Morgan sighs and fixes a hand through her wild mane giving Harry a soberingly solemn look.

“Seriously though Harry, if... if you need me for anything, you know where to find me, aye?”

He swallows, offering up a grateful smile.

“Of course, Morgan.”

X

Lunch time has rolled around when Harry finally manages to track down Hermione in the department of misuse of Muggle artefacts, where she has buried herself like a tea mole under a heap of parchment. She scribbles away at what looks suspiciously like a report with an earnest sort of determination on her face.

Harry sighs and lumbers toward her wondering if she had been there since the early hours of this morning, if she had even bothered to remind herself to eat.

He raps his fingers lightly against her desk and she startles like a ghost, her eyes snapping to him as though she were about to unleash a torrent of fury upon him for having the nerve to disturb her.

“Easy, ‘Mione,” he soothes with a grin and she jabs her quill into the ink well with enough strength to send ebony ink sloshing back out again. She scowls more and spells the ink back into its small prison which Harry very almost laughs at but knows Hermione would kick his arse if he let out so much as a giggle.

“What are you _doing_ here?” She hisses collecting bundles of parchment together and pushing them firmly to the side. He shrugs coyly, turning to walk away.

“Lunch time, I suppose. But if you’re not hungry I can just-“

Hermione leans over the desk quicker than a Leprechaun to grab his wrist and Harry has to physically bite his lips together in order not to snort. “Wait, Harry, love, _darling_. You wouldn’t honestly deprive a girl of her food, would you?”

She bats her eyelashes at him and Harry raises a brow. “Well that depends if said girl can drag herself away from her sodding research long enough to come down to the canteen for Shepherds pie.” Hermione groans in dismay obviously torn between her reports and the Ministry’s so called ‘Muggle Monday’.

“ _Fine_ ,” She appeases almost immediately and Harry all but drags her from the Department so they can enjoy a wonderfully filling lunch. He takes the chance to also clue her in on what he learned of Henri Dubois.

By the time he’s finished explaining Her eyes are a light with something terrifyingly fierce and she leans across their small table in the corner of the ornate and rather large canteen her voice low, urgent. “That’s a _brilliant_ lead, Harry! He might just take us straight to,” She grapples with the name which makes Harry feel better knowing that he’s not the only one having trouble saying it.

“Dubois might lead us straight to Snape.” Her eyes drop to the table suddenly and Harry frowns, reaching out to touch her hand.

“‘Mione? What’s the matter. A second ago you were buzzing...”

She smiles wanly and shakes her curls. “It’s just... These Wizards, Harry.” She gives him a grave look with distant, torn eyes and Harry knows immediately who she’s referring to.

“They’re - they followed Voldemort and I think they want to try to resurrect him.”

Harry immediately goes numb. He draws his touch from Hermione and they stare at each other in cold, cold silence. Ice draws through Harry like a blade, dragging at his flesh until he can hardly bring himself to breathe.

“But, but that’s not possible.”

Hermione swallows thickly but can’t seem to shift whatever has settled in her throat.

“He had followers, death eaters all over the globe, some that hadn’t reached here in time to aid him before his fall. Some that are... powerful, Harry.”

He breathes deep. Takes another hard breath but can still feel the stammer coming on.

“How powerful.”

Hermione opens her mouth, closes it again, opens it once more to let honesty tumble between her lips.

“I don’t know yet.”

Well fuck. Bloody fucking fuck.

“At least we still have time. N-no-ot a lot but enough to try, ‘Mione.”

She nods resolutely, the fierce look returning like a tidal wave to her eyes, strong and unforgiving.

“And we have what they don’t.” She utters with a bitter-sweet smile. “

That God-awful book.”

X

They march down to Harry’s office, bent on contacting Malfoy so they can get together a plan of action, based on what they’ve both learnt. Harry knows they can do it. Knows that whatever or whoever they’re going to have to face they are already one step ahead of. He’s almost floating with the relief that for once, he knows what he’s doing before rushing into the fight.

“- turns out someone had stolen the mans bloody dog, Mione! W- w -Why would someone do that, tell me. Honestly!” Harry says throwing his hands up in exasperation.

She smiles softly,” You’re one to talk, Potter.”

He raises a brow. “Beg your pardon.”

She raises one back. “Was it not you who birdknapped Malfoy’s owl? Or do I have the wrong Wizard?”

Harry sputters, but cannot scrape together a decent retaliation in times d Hermione's light laughter bursts forth at his expense, touches his ears and warms his chest, he's so relieved to hear it because life has made a rarity out of her happiness that he’s not even annoyed that she’s laughing at _him_.

They reach his office and Harry pushes the door wide another joke on his tongue-

But the joy of the moment is immediately shot through and destroyed by the near unbelievable sight of Ron stood soot streaked and blood smeared next to an equally bloody Draco Malfoy in the middle of his office. His jaw is working as though he's trying to muster the urge to speak yet his lips stay pressed shut, tight and chapped. That, in itself, is warning enough. He notices that Malfoy is clutching the book to his chest like it might sprout legs and escape, his fingers a mess of blood and dust, as though someone has tried to physically pry them away from the leather-

And then it clicks. Heavy and wrong in his head, like an old door falling in to lock. Harry swallows loudly and it's the first sound someone's made in the room for one whole minute.

"They know about the book."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oosh woowow. That was a lot to take in. I need to sit down ~
> 
> As always, my readers, much love to you all hope you’re enjoying yourselves ~ !


	5. The beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lads I’m back after a long time I’m sorry -
> 
> BUT HERE ARE MY BOYS AND TROUBLE IS HEREEE

Silence.

Nothing but silence from the Ministry’s own _Golden boy_. One of their supposedly top Aurors. How very pathetic. There’s a sneer already forming on Draco’s lips, a comment dripping with sarcasm poised like a diver at the tip of his tongue, but he does not say it. Instead, he grips the book tighter to his sodden robes, rises up to his full height in an attempt to look as though he has some semblance of sanity left. As though he isn’t possibly two seconds away from unconsciousness. He’d stopped counting the curses he had taken after fifteen.

“Did you not hear me, Potter?” He fills his voice with the chilling contempt of twelve years of hatred and sets his eyes unwaveringly upon both him and Granger.

Words cannot express how absurdly incensed Draco Lucius Malfoy currently is. Weasley sighs beside him. His cobalt eyes, framed with a sickening concoction of blood, dust and drizzle, are nothing but a bruise blue stain against the watery canvas of his face, throwing his dark freckles into stark contrast against his skin. Yet, he still maintains an air of level-headedness. Like he wasn’t just on the wrong end of a very ill aimed Avada Kadavra and Draco hates it. He also can’t help but notice that the slight tremble in Weasley’s body has worsened since they had reached the Ministry and he winces a tad when Granger rushes forward to grasp him by the sleeve into which a gaping hole has been singed. Weasley doesn’t pull away, though. If anything he seems to collapse into her hold which is mildly alarming what with Weasley towering easily over six foot three whilst Granger couldn’t possibly be higher than five foot six. She looks between Draco and Weasley. Apprehensive as ever, he notes, wishing for nothing more than a seat and a strong sleeping drought.

“How on Earth did you two bump into each other?”

Draco inhales slowly, hushes his wary mind. “I was actually coming to the Ministry, as it were. Weasley appeared... just in time to come to my aid when I happened upon a group of Wizards with nothing more than bad intention.”

Granger raises one eyebrow in disbelief. “Correct me if I’m wrong but, something tells me that’s a bit of an understatement, Malfoy.”

Draco blanches But is quick to smother it. Granger’s astuteness will be his downfall. “I’ll explain in more detail later, Granger but right now Weasley and I are rather in need of a Healer.”

Weasley gives him a worryingly grateful look. “Of course.” Granger surveys Weasley. Her eyes hold onto a concern that threatens to spill down her cheeks.

X

More than a few curious eyes peer at them as they quickly traverse the corridors of the Ministry and Draco tries not to meet a single one. His gut tells him already that looking would most likely leave him with the impression of disgusted faces imprinted behind his eyelids for weeks to come. And frankly? He’s had his fair share of disappointed, angry people. Draco tries to tune into the conversation taking place between the trio around him instead.

“ -It protected us. Damn bastards tried to Crucio me,” Weasley huffs as they walk and Granger rolls her eyes. Draco doesn’t point out the grave understatement on Weasley’s part. Do they usually keep things like near-death experiences from each other? “But that book put up a barrier - do you reckon it’s possessed?”

“That’s a-a-a po-possibility,” Potter stutters from behind and Draco doesn’t miss the twitch in Granger’s eyebrow, doesn’t miss Potters sudden inability to articulate correctly.

“Something powerful like a Demon?” Weasley proposes without missing a beat. Draco gets the discernible feeling that he’s missing something, but exactly what that is is far beyond his reach.

“Demon’s entrapped within objects often manifest physically but can’t go anywhere without the object they have been entrapped within. As far as I know, nothing has appeared, as such,” Draco explains. “I’d say it has become self-aware over time.”

Granger hums in agreement. “That’s often the case with extremely powerful, magical creations. I’ve never seen it on this magnitude before, though.”

A head ache like no other decides to rip through Draco at that moment and he feels his own face crumple around a wince. Small mercy they seem to be turning into the medical wing now because Draco isn’t sure he would have been able to walk any further.

The wing is high and wide, with ornate ceilings and a generous amount of space between each ward. Granger leads them to a desk at the left of the entrance behind which a jaunty looking Wizard sits spelling through mounds of paper work.

Draco glances about and is brought to the attention of Weasley who is now shaking like a leaf caught in a windstorm. He has somehow declined into a pallor more sickly than the previous one. Sweat beads across the bunched skin of his forehead.

“Weasley?” Draco says and the redhead manages a thin smile before a small huff of pain pushes past his drawn lips. There is something inherently irritating in the way he’s still trying to play the hero.

“Potter?” Draco says urgently and Potter, who had been politely conversing with the Wizard behind the desk turns, catching sight of Weasley. The look on his face makes Draco’s stomach twist.

There’s ... something behind it. Something which spans far beyond concern. It holds the weight of oceans, the depth of chasms. Potter rushes toward Weasley, taking his arm between gentle hands and Weasley’s face turns sickeningly soft. Draco looks away. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t bring himself to watch. It feels like he’s witnessing something private.

Lucky for him, Granger and a band of Mediwitches come to escort them to rooms in which they’ll be treated. Thank Merlin.

X

He’s sitting on a bed in the Medical Wing, Granger bombarding him with questions whilst a Mediwitch flits about like an irate fairy, trying to tend to his wounds. That’s when it occurs to him, like some sort of belated epiphany, that his entire body hurts. His face, his back, his legs, Merlin, even the roots of his hair seem to be crying out in pain. The adrenaline must have been the only thing keeping him upright, and with that drained from his system, he feels about ready to collapse.

He finally unsticks his bloodied fingers from the book and sets it on the bed beside him. Granger gives it a ginger look, bends down to examine the cover. She frowns and it’s funnily reminiscent of her younger self.

“It looks different.”

“It is. A physical binding appeared shortly after the attack, presumably as a direct result. I believe it may possibly be self-aware - Sentient,” Draco explains as a soothing cold gives chase to the soreness dashed across the skin of his lip and left cheek. He tastes the cut on his mouth once more only to find it vanished and nods his thanks to the Mediwitch who finally seems to be satisfied with her work.

“I’ll be back later to run diagnostics on you. Mr.Malfoy,” She voices, before leaving and Draco turns back to Granger.

“From What I gathered, they seem to have discovered that my Mother had been hiding the book. It’s plausible they know of my line of work, my relation to Severus and, thus, moved forward from there.” Draco glances up through the curtain of white blond hair that has fallen into his eyes and smiles wryly. “It was only a matter of time before they came for me, anyway.”

A glimpse of something tight and angry, flashes across Granger’s face before she turns away from him. Draco doesn’t bother to read too much into it, his mind is moving slower and slower with each passing second and it’s all he can do to stop himself from swaying into unconsciousness. What he most desires, is to get out of these absolutely tattered robes and sleep for the rest of the year.

“Look, Malfoy, it’s obvious that it is no longer safe for you to work independently. From what you’ve told me I can only assume that they know everything, down to where you live.”

Draco knows this. He grimaces to himself, takes a thin hand through his hair. He’ll have to find a place to stay, possibly a safe house, living with a friend would only put needless lives at risk. And - frankly? - Draco’s had enough of seeing needless lives being put at risk.

It takes a moment, but Draco finally remembers what he had come to the Ministry to do. He picks up the book, fiddles with the lock until it pops open and thumbs through the pages, turning it toward Granger.

“Wait it opens now?”

“More than that, Granger, the text is different. It used to be potions but now it’s poems - songs.”

Granger frowns staring hard at the pages as if she’s having trouble seeing. “But, Malfoy, there aren’t any-“

There’s a knock at the door. Granger goes to open it and - lo and behold if it isn’t the saviour of the entire Wizarding World. What joy. Potter pauses before entering, scratches his squarish nails through the stubble colonising along his jaw as he surveys them both from under purplish lids and dark brows. It looks as though he hasn’t slept in months which somehow makes Draco uneasy.

Potter was supposed to be the perfect one, after all. The chosen one, the Boy who just wouldn’t fucking die. But right now? Right now, he looks as though he’s one strong gust of wind away from collapsing. Granger visibly relaxes at the sight of him but only minutely. There’s still an ounce of worry etched into the lines on her caramel forehead.

“Harry,” She says striding forward as she speaks. “How’s Ron.”

Potter aims a quick, wary glance at Malfoy before his eyes find there way back to her. The tense strain of his shoulders makes Draco’s stomach squirm.

“He’s fine, f-f-or the most part-“ Granger makes a sound like a choked Owl and Potter quickly reaches out to grasp assuredly at her shoulder. “You were right. About the nerve damaging spells. He’s been exposed to so many that he might...have permanent damage to his left arm.”

Draco can’t see Granger’s face, but from the way her body bows forward and her head drops, he can tell she’s fighting back tears.

No wonder.

No wonder, Weasley had dropped his wand in the middle of the fight, had struggled to get his body to cooperate. Draco immediately feels shame course through him like a wave at the way he had sneered at him for being so utterly ‘useless’. Had Weasley not thrown himself in front of Draco... he might not have gotten so badly injured. He doesn’t owe Draco a single thing, so why would he... why...

“He was protecting me,” Draco whispers hoarsely and Potter flinches as Granger whips around with a face full of astonishment. “He put himself between me and them. I...”

Her face collapses into a proud smile and her eyes soften considerably. “That noble idiot.” But then something else infiltrates her features and she returns right back to worrying. “Does that mean- will he be able to carry on as ...”

Potter opens his mouth to speak. Opens it, closes it, opens it again and Draco is briefly reminded of the fish they used to keep in the ponds at the Manor.

“I-I-I-I don’t kno-know.” Granger, reworks her face into something far more professional before taking a measured breath.

“Is it okay if you stay here whilst I...?” If Potter is against her request, he doesn’t let it show. He simply nods giving Granger’s shoulder a quick squeeze before walking her out the door.

When he re enters, he doesn’t say a word and Draco isn’t sure whether he’s in the right mind to ask more about Weasley’s well-being. He tries to summon something to say, something to break the suffocating silence but his tongue won’t work. Every word he tries to say becomes lodged in the depths of his throat.

And really, it would be lying if he said he wasn’t more than a bit irked by Potter’s silence. Since when had he become so... reserved? Or had he always been that way? Draco rifles through the memories he has of Potter and - no, he hadn’t been particularly shy nor quiet during school. Always ready to snark back at Draco whenever they engaged in a verbal battle. Ever the fierce little Gryffindor. Brave and brash, irritating Draco to no end with his obnoxiously loud voice, irritating Draco with just his mere existence in all honesty. Not to mention when he would partake in that awful thing Draco assumed was supposed to be snogging with that equally awful Weasley girl.

He surreptitiously glances toward Potter, struggling to detect even the smallest fragments of the boy he used to be but only manages to find a tired, pale man in his wake. He clears his throat and Potter’s jade eyes flicker to him. And for a moment, Malfoy notices what an oddly beautiful colour they are, like pieces of coloured glass caught in sunlight, what an unusual face they’re set in. It occurs to him for the first time since their meeting that Potter is actually of foreign decent which shouldn’t be as much of a shocking revelation as it is. But to Draco, Potter’s always been, well, just Potter... nothing more. Draco’s curious to know just where his family comes from, what kind of blood flows through his veins- Only then does he realise that he’s been staring for far longer than is socially acceptable and stiffly averts his gaze.

“I should go and thank Weasley-“ Draco says, trying to diffuse the tension that has gathered in the air like tar and Potter’s face flashes with the briefest moment of surprise.

“Try not to look so shocked, Potter, I am capable of basic human decency.” He sneers. Nice to know Potter still thinks as little of him as he did during their school days-

Another abrupt thought suddenly invades Draco’s mind and he swears loudly. “Merlin’s hairy bollocks!”

For Salazar’s sakes, he’d forgotten about Deli! How could he have forgotten about Deli? He scrambles to his feet ignoring the rising nausea and merciless pounding at his temples, surging upward, wand in hand. Potter’s eyes go comically wide and he extends his own hands toward Draco as if he’s trying to tame a Dragon.

“Mal-f-foy I really don’t think-“

“Oh do shut up, Potter!” He snaps woozily finding his way to the door on shaking legs. It feels as though the very ground is shifting beneath his feet.

“Where a-are you-you going?”

“To get my bloody elf, Potter, would you please-“

“You have an el-“

Something tickles the skin under his nose and he stops abruptly to brush whatever it is away.

Potter stares at him, his eyebrows drawing upward in - is that - surprise? Worry? Is Potter worried? The possibility alone seems blasphemous.

“Malfoy...”

Draco glances down at his hand. Deep scarlet streaks the length of his index finger. He touches his nose again and more blood slides slowly over his fingertips. It won’t stop. Why won’t it stop? Potter moves toward him, his arm coming to rest under Draco’s elbow as his eyes dip into extreme concern. Electricity pulses out from the point of contact and Draco gasps at the sheer sensation -

What is this feeling? -

He barely has time to rasp out a weak. “Potter.”

Before he collapses into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O my god DRACO BOI


End file.
